Every so often, the fire alarm here at the Office goes off, and even though there are posted notices throughout the building that it’s just a drill, I still lock my computer, fire up my iPod, slip into my coat, and head down via the stairs.
Some of my colleagues join me, more mock me. “It’s just a drill!” and “They’d let us know if it was a real fire!”
A few weeks ago, during a drill, our CFO e-mailed everyone:
Fire Alarm is just a Test. Please do not leave.
I fired back a quick response before heading down and out:
“Just curious: if there was a real fire at a time they’d scheduled a test, how would we know?”
When I came back, I had his answer:
No clue.
So when the fire alarm went off today, despite the scheduled postings, I made my way down and out. Burning to death at work is not something I’m willing to risk, especially since the Office probably wouldn’t know there was a real fire until the smoke starts creeping in under the door.
So I’m working the Info desk tonight, and this attractive woman walks over and tells me I need to find her naked.
Which kind of puzzles me for a minute — particularly given her accent and her phrasing — is she propositioning me? Or am I supposed to find an alternate dimension version of herself running around the Bookstore in her birthday suit?
Seeing my confusion, and apparently figuring I’m too stupid to look a gift model in the boobs, she hands over a printed document. It’s some sort of online press release, and while I don’t actually read Portuguese (Brazil!), but Playboy International maintains its name across languages pretty well.
Sadly, we didn’t actually carry the magazine, and for reasons I don’t entirely understand, I spent several minutes on her cell phone trying to explain this to her boyfriend/pimp, who didn’t speak very good English, either. Too bad: I kind of wanted to ask him why he wanted the magazine if he gets to see the real thing every night?
Do you know what day it was one year ago, March 17th, 2008?
I don’t know either, actually. A Monday, probably. I’ll tell you what it wasn’t, though: it wasn’t St. Patrick’s Day, which was actually March 15th. (That’s the cool thing about Catholic holidays — every now and then, some of them get moved).
But today is St. Patrick’s Day. So if you’re one of those faux Irish who’ll use any excuse to drink, have fun getting yourself piss drunk. Me? I might have a beer when I get home from work, but I’ll still be at work at 7am, and I’ll probably be just a little bit louder than I usually am, for my hungover colleagues.
Meanwhile, it’s my first St. Patty’s Day at the Bookstore tonight, and I don’t know what to expect. We already get more than our fair share of crazy mother fuckers, so tonight I’m expecting all of them, drunk, plus a whole bunch of regular drunk dumb asses who want to fill our toilets with green pee.
Er. No thanks.
Hopefully, however, everyone will be so busy drinking themselves into a stupor that we’ll have a pretty easy night of it. Yesterday was the second night in a row I walked back to find that some dirt back scum shit had left a total mess in our Business section — I mean, honestly, is it so goddamn hard to put your books back where you found them? This is not your bedroom, and I’m not your fucking mother.
Doc Brown’s a pretty stupid guy, as intelligent as he is.
Okay, so I had a pretty dull Saturday night. Changed the cat litter, cooked some fish sticks, drank some cheap beer, sorted a few jars of coins and rolled them, and watched the Back to the Future trilogy. By the time I got to Part III, which seems pretty “out there” compared to the first two (which both feature 1955 rather prominently), something began to bother me.
It didn’t really click until I walked into the Bookstore this morning. I snapped my fingers and exclaimed, “Oh my!”
Okay, so, to bring everyone up to date:
At the end of Part II, Marty McFly is stuck in 1955 after 1985-era Doc Brown seemingly blows up after a lighting bolt strikes the Delorean. In reality, the Delorean was transported back in time to 1885. With a letter from the past as a guide, Marty and 1955-Doc Brown unearth the Delorean from its hiding place in an used mine, where 1985-Doc Brown hid it.
The car has a blown fuse for its time device, but 1985-Doc Brown includes instructions on how to build a replacement from 1955 parts. 1955-Doc Brown builds the replacement (it’s honking huge and takes up most of the hood), but instead of returning to 1985, Marty decides to go back to 1885: he and 1955-Doc Brown have learned that 1985-Doc Brown is shot and killed shortly after his arrival in 1885. Arriving in 1885 in a white-wall wheeled Delorean, Marty promptly rips a fuel line, this prompting an entire ridiculous (but fun) plot about getting a train up to 88 miles an hour, pushing the Delorean (outfitted with rail-car wheels) back to the future.
So: here’s my question. Presumably, by the time Marty arrives in 1885, Doc Brown has already hidden his Delorean in the abandoned mine shaft. Would it not have been far easier to remove the fuel line from this Delorean, and make a note to 1955-Doc Brown to just replace the thing? Obviously, I assume a replacement fuel line could be obtained in 1955, but if not, I’m sure 1985-era Doc Brown would be smart enough to instruct 1955-Doc Brown on how to build one.
And, y’know, failing all that: couldn’t 1985-Doc Brown have included a note to his 1955 self? Something along the lines of: “Hey, me, when you build that time machine car, here are some things you WILL ABSOLUTELY need replacements of: fuse, fuel lines …”
Talking with a coworker the other day, he declared Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” to be a very sad song.
I disagree.
Certainly, it’s a very mournful, sentimental song. It gives the impression of being about sad stuff, but I think it’s actually very moving and uplifting. Really, though, it’s all summed up pretty early on in the song:
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
Where I’m at right now doesn’t feel like a “minor fall”, but maybe it will if what happens around the corner is the “major lift.” I’m keeping fingers crossed.
The concept of “Team Leaders” at my Office job is a little ridiculous. Everyone works individually. We have an assigned beat, and when we’re done with that, we’re done. TLs provide a filter between us and management, checking our work for anything obvious and embarrassing before we submit for QA. For the most part, I’ve had no problems with my TL.
And then we got assigned, as a group, a presentation. Which is kind of silly, because this has never been a company big on doing presentations. In any case, we had a two week lead time, with the snow storm and virtual shutting down of the Office two weeks ago extending us another week. You think we’d be in good shape, but no. I’m pretty certain Monday is going to be a clusterfuck, because our TL? Nice guy? Not so good at actually providing any direction, so we’ve been kind of floating around not sure what the other was doing.
This is a total change of pace from what I’m used to. Which would be: “MOTHERFUCKER! GET THIS DELIVERY OUT THE FUCKING DOOR!”
That, of course, would be my old boss Gary, at my old place of employment, the Pizza Connection, up in Hunt Valley. Gary was a take-charge kind of leader, largely because if he wasn’t, the whole damn store would fall apart around his ears.
I last saw him back in May, I think. He threw a spring party, and after working all Saturday at Borders, I drove home (I was still commuting from Timonium) and stopped by. It was dark by the time I’d gotten there, and Gary was piss fucking drunk. He gave me a big hug, which is really out of character for him (then again, he was drunk). His wife put him to bed not long after that, and I hit the road.
He called me recently, needing my address so he could mail me my W2. We spoke for about ten minutes. After he sold the pizza place — I was so surprised when he told us, he showed up late Saturday night with beers, told us to close up, handed out the alcohol, and we had a final toast, he’d owned the place for nearly twenty years — he went into refrigeration/electronics repair. He talked about the fryer he had to chisel free from a Friendly’s (grease), or the mouse droppings falling on him when he was working at a chain restaurant. “We never eat out anymore,” he told me.
At the same time I was working at Pizza Connection, I was also working for a Domino’s franchise. Greg, the owner, and I, never really seemed to get along. Oh, we could bullshit about stuff, but I was always aggressive about taking runs (and making tips), and I don’t think he really ever understood that. It was a very slow store — not much business during the day, not much more at night. It was enough to get by, but many days I could get through most of a book without so much as a single delivery. When I got the job at the Office, I gave him a week’s notice and then departed.
He too called me for my new address. He has also sold his franchise, shortly after I left, and is now a delivery driver for UPS. I’m actually a bit envious of him: they pay well, and the drivers are largely left alone. We spoke for nearly half an hour, him telling me about his new job and his family, me telling him about living in DC and some of the crazy people who come into the Bookstore, about the election. He voted McCain. That’s not a shock, although I wonder how Old Man Frank feels about a black guy in the White House.
Guy is the older of my two cats. He’s personable, but on his own terms. He’s not a big fan of being picked up, so when he wants to be petted, he usually gets onto the lower shelf on the bookcase behind my couch. Since I tend to dangle a hand behind my couch, he’s able to rub his head against my hand.
Incidentally, this is how I found him: I was at the Humane Society back in the fall of 1999, wanting to adopt a cat. There were stacks of cages and I was walking down them headed for the kittens, dangling my fingers along the bars, when I suddenly felt a furry explosion: this big black and white cat was vigorously rubbing his head against my hand. I stopped, stuck my fingers into the cage, and he rubbed his big old fat head back and forth. Taking him out of his cage, he promptly hissed at me. I took him home a week later. Over the years, he has grown wise to the notion that if he wishes to avoid being held, he needs to keep himself out of range of my hands.
I had a pretty awful night at the Bookstore last night, possibly the worst single night since the Christmas season. I’m not going to go into detail except to say that I won’t be answering my phone if they call me to see if I want to pick up a shift tonight. No thanks. My frustration (anger?) is a combination of several factors: primarily, somehow, I managed to put myself into a position to be the recipient of Murphy’s Law for the entire night. Angry homeless guy wanting attention and yelling at someon? He got to yell at me. DVD keeper that won’t open so I have to call an inventory guy from the back to come open it? I was at the register, alone, with half a dozen people in line. Also, a note of rather ominous intent was distributed to everyone’s mailbox yesterday talking about changes in the store’s operation, and how, if we’re not cool with it, we’re welcome to hit the road.
After work, I walked south to K street to pick up the L2 bus home. I felt fine. I mean, y’know: angry, frustrated, and possibly needing to punch someone (or cry). But, physically, I felt fine. The bus came, I got on, read a chapter or two out of McDevitt’s ‘Odyssey’, then pulled the cord as the bus rumbled towards my stop and stepped off.
The bus drops me maybe a quarter of a block from my apartment building. It was a cool night, but not cold. I was aware of the chill in the air, but I wasn’t freezing. So I crossed the road towards my building, and I suddenly felt like someone had dumped ice on me. I just started shivering, and went the whole nine yards with my teeth clattering. I hurried into my building, staggered up the stairs, and entered the elevator. I cranked up the heat in my apartment, and fired up my laptop to check my email.
Guy came up from under the bookcase, padded across the couch, and made a comforting sort of meowing sound. Then he sat right down next to me and looked up. I like to think he was saying: “Hey, dude, let’s chill.” He was probably saying: “I better get some backscratch for this.” I rubbed his head and he purred, I rubbed his furry white belly and he started trying to lick my fingers.
He wised up when I set my laptop aside and headed for safety under the bed. I threw a couple of afghans on top of the comforter, killed the heat, and Tippy, the younger cat, made herself at home on my pillow. I moved her to the side, clambered into the warm bed, and slept rather fitfully for about two hours, waking up a little before midnight drenched in sweat.
I’ve had the 24-hour bug before, quite frequently, as a matter of fact. Last night might’ve been the first time I’ve had the two hour bug, and I came through it mostly unscathed, although my throat is a little scratchy.
If you happen to know — or can guess — what Bookstore I work in, I have a warning for you: kindly avoid the photography/architecture area, as an elderly (and hopefully senile) “cussed-a-more” was found attempting to have sexual relations with inanimate objects there yesterday.
At the very least, wash really really really well before you eat.
On a serious note: while I can see why a digital reader like the Kindle would be very useful to me, in terms of reading daily newspapers and magazines, I just really can’t imagine myself ever reading a book on one. To be sentimental, a digital library is a cold and dreary place: I want a big fireplace, and comfortable leather reading chairs, and giant oak shelves bursting with books.
There’s an “Employee Picks” section on a pillar at the front of the store. A book purporting to be my pick is displayed there. The sole description of it reads “Best. Book. Ever.” However, for the record, I’ve never read that book — the description I wrote was for David Simon’s Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets, which is a fantastic book about the Baltimore police department’s homicide unit (which led directly to NBC’s “Homicide: Life on the Street”, and indirectly to HBO’s “The Wire”).
However, we did not have any copies of “Homicide” when the employee pick wall had to be set up, so our merchandising supervisor, knowing my recent affinity for all things Jack McDevitt, grabbed a copy of Cauldron and placed it there. For the record, I do own a copy of Cauldron, and I will be reading it soon. I expect to enjoy it greatly, but I very much doubt it deserves the description “best book ever.”
***
Daylight Saving Time brings out the dumb people.
My favorite, by far, was the person yanking on the door at 6:01 demanding to be let in.
“It’s 6:00!” one of my coworkers opened the door a crack to speak to him. “We’re closed.”
“You close at 6? So I have an hour.” He pointed at his watch, which apparently said 5:00.
“No … it’s six now. We’re closed.”
“But my watch says FIVE! What is wrong with you mother fuckers?”
“I’m calling the police,” my manager said at this point.
“Fine! I’m leaving!” the guy yelled. “But you idiots can’t piss on my face and tell me it’s water!”
***
There’s a reason the alternate spelling for “customer” is “cussed-a-more”.
Saturday night, I made my way into Chinatown to watch The Watchmen.
I’m going to start with this: if you’re going to adapt a book into a film, either it needs to be a really short book, or it needs to be a book you don’t mind butchering to fuck. Alternatively, you might want to see if you can sell it as a miniseries instead. Really, off the top of my head, Harry Potter & The Order of the Phoenix is pretty close to a picture-perfect example of a great adaptation of a book, capturing the text in broad strokes while keeping a stead pace. Compare that film with the first Harry Potter film, and you’ll see what I mean (especially if you’ve read the books): the first film follows Rowling’s story almost to the letter, but, holy fuck, it just goes on and on and on.
Sort of like Watchmen. Which just keeps going and going and going. It’s like the damn Energizer bunny.
I didn’t think Watchmen was bad. I just didn’t think it was great, either. I’m assuming Snyder had considerable input on the script, and I wish he’d been a bit more brutal in trimming out story elements. Part of me hates to say that, but I think Alan Moore was right on the money when he said his comic was “unfilmable.” It’s not just a matter of using a comic as a script and storyboard, you’ve actually got adapt the story for a totally different medium.
And that just didn’t happen here.
I didn’t think Watchman was a bad film. But I don’t think it should have been a film — rather, one film. It probably would have worked considerably better as two or three films, released over a couple of years. Most likely, I think the miniseries format — all too often overlooked, or treated only as a vehicle for “back door pilots” — would have allowed Snyder the ability to full and faithfully recreate Alan Moore’s Watchmen.
Some specific reactions:
The opening montage is the (seriously) best part of the film. Without a doubt.
Patrick Wilson as Dan/Nite Owl and Jackie Haley as Rorschach were, to my mind, perfect. Haley captured his character, particularly at the end: “Do it. DO IT!”
Given how long the film runs, and how much time had to be cut from the film, it kind of boggles the mind how long some of the fight sequences were. In particular, the opening sequence between the Comedian and his assailant drags on far too long: Two other fight sequences strike me as overlong, both involving Dan and Laurie: first, in the alley, and second, in the prison. Did we really need all that?
During the flashback where Kovacs “becomes” Rorschach for the first time … I preferred the way it was presented in the book.
Dr. Manhattan’s ‘Little Bronx’ was dangling all about. The first few times we, the audience, experienced full-frontal super hero nudity, everyone gasped (and a couple of people giggled). This I need to stress: there are so much blue balls in this film (literally) that by the finale, everyone had, I think, seen as much blue penis as they’d ever need to. Well, except a coworker of mine who told me today that she though Dr. Manhattan’s penis was the best part of the film (much to her husband’s obvious chagrin, I’m sure).
The ending has been changed. In the book, Veidt has developed some impressive technologies, and teleports a gigantic alien-squid thing into the center of New York City. Fearing that Earth is about to be invaded by aliens, the planet unites. There’s actually a lot more to it than that, but it already kind of sounds ridiculous as is. In the movie, Veidt destroys several cities across the globe in a method which frames Dr. Manhattan as the culprit: fearful of Manhattan’s vengeance if the world doesn’t change its ways, nations unite. Y’know what? As an ending, it works.
It’s important to know that if I’d done a little more research on the Bookstore before I applied and was hired (almost a year ago), I may have gone looking elsewhere. But I didn’t. It’s also important to know that the Bookstore was on rocky financial turf well before the economy tanked, and that what it’s doing now, as much as it sucks, is akin to a sinking ship jettisoning everything to keep itself afloat.
Wednesday, my phone rang at the Office, and it was the training supervisor at the Bookstore, asking if I wanted to work Friday night. I said “Sure!” and walked into the store last night and found out the woman who’d called me to work, someone my age, someone who was at that store for about half a year (and at others prior), was laid off Thursday.
Company wide, the Bookstore’s parent slashed almost seven hundred front-line retail management positions this week. It works out to one manager and two supervisors per store, with the multimedia manager and supervisor, and the training supervisor, taking the brunt of the cuts. They’ve got one week severance, and have the option to return to work as non-exempt (hourly) booksellers. “Why would they want to do that?” one of the staff asked last night, in the break room. “Because it’s a job,” I said.
The decision was apparently made strategically: the company’s sales plans were lowered, based on each store’s performance to date, and projected sales. With a lower sales plan, the store’s operating budget is reduced, and a very easy way to cut some of that is to get rid of salaried positions. In addition, by eliminated salaried positions, you’re able to staff more hourly (read: far cheaper) employees, who are able to provide more coverage on the sales floor, and the registers, which leads to more sales.
Everyone was glum at the Bookstore Friday night. It’s one thing to deal with having your hours cut, but coming in to find that three well-liked and respected members of the management team have been kicked to the curb just doesn’t sit well with anyone.
I’ve worked in restaurant and retail environments long enough to know the difference between a good manager and a bad one, and I’ve been fortunate enough in my time at the Bookstore to only work with one bad manager, and she’s long since gone. It would probably be easier if Yvonne, Brian, and Jenny had been horrible at their jobs, and were widely detested by the staff — they weren’t.
It really sucks in Yvonne’s case — she wasn’t out multi media manager. But she — this week! — went to another store on a temporary assignment and was, you guess it, assigned as the multimedia manager there. She worked one day, and was then laid off. Sucks.
On the flip side — because of these cuts, more hours are now available to booksellers. Next week, I’m almost back to my pre-holiday working schedule, and in addition, a few full-timers seem to have found promising leads for more secure employment, which will probably result in as many hours as I can shake my first at — which is a good thing.
So I’m conflicted. Because I’m going to miss working with Yvonne, Brian, and Jenny. But because with their departure, the financial ground under my feet is solidifying. “It’s a dog eat dog world out there,” that same staffer said.
, which is a fantastic book about the Baltimore police department’s homicide unit (which led directly to NBC’s “Homicide: Life on the Street”, and indirectly to HBO’s “The Wire”).